Old Ghosts
by bamftastik
Summary: After the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, a nameless ghost sorts through his returning memories with the help of specters from his past. Also, with bar fights. And beating up HYDRA. But when the past catches up, how can he trust that it's not just another shadow?
1. Chapter 1

This was a hall of ghosts. People thronged around him, a blur of motion and wordless chatter, of life and warmth and even stranger things. They crowded together, talking and pointing, paying no attention to the stranger hunching in his jacket and tugging down his cap. A child brushed past him, rushing wide-eyed toward the next exhibit, and he flinched instinctively away. Two exits, three guards. If he had to run, they wouldn't be a problem. He drew a ragged breath, willing himself to stay calm. These were just people, families. They wouldn't hurt him, couldn't hurt him. No one even knew he was here.

No one but the ghosts. They'd followed him here, whispering in his ear, the cold creeping up his spine as he made his way through the museum. Always, they brought the cold. Always, they stared, angry and accusing, an endless parade of fractured memories and nameless faces. He didn't know them, not really, but he knew how they had died. His fists clenched in his pockets, remembering. He'd stopped trying to block them out, stopped trying to shut his eyes to the horrors that they had to show him. Because that was the point, the only thing left that made sense. He deserved this.

Is that why he'd come? Had they not punished him enough? He could tell himself that he was looking for answers, but that was only half true. He _wanted_ to feel this. He wanted it to hurt.

Someone laughed in his ear and he whirled, shoulders tensing. It was only a group of teenagers, moving onto the next display, paying no attention to him. He checked his exit again. People were starting to step around him, to cast curious glances his way. He'd been standing here too long.

Because he'd found the ghost that he was looking for. It had started with the man on the ship, the man who had hurt him, the man who had saved him. He shouldn't have, but that was the man he was. A hero, the signs called him, a patriot, a soldier. But the ghost that whispered to him now was something else. He stood beside him, staring up at the video screens that flickered from one newsreel to the next. He was so small, just a skinny kid. Steven Rogers, who had become Captain America. Steven Rogers, always too damn stubborn to back down from a fight. How did he know that? It wasn't written on the walls, wasn't in the videos. But as they watched the old footage together, the instinct returned in force, the same instinct he'd felt when he plunged into the water and dragged the man to shore. So small, so good. He needed to be protected.

The exhibit explained how the tiny boy beside him had become the man that he had fought, how the war had changed him. No, not war. It had been the work of men, of science. Rogers had been chosen because of what they saw inside, a hero who just needed a little push. They'd taken the best and made him even better. But men had changed _him_, too. They'd fused him into something new, used their machines to scar his mind. And what had _he_ become? What sort of monster must he have been to end up like this?

Looking up at him, the ghost smiled. "You're not a monster, Buck."

He turned away, panic tightening his chest. He'd been wrong to come here. None of it made sense, not the things the man had told him, not the details recorded here. But another ghost was waiting for him, looming ahead, etched into a wall of glass. Frozen. Lost. Just like him. A ghost with his face.

The glass threw back his reflection. He forced himself to study it, to look past the shadowed chin and hollow eyes. It had been a long time since he'd seen himself for what he was, since the concept of self held any meaning. He was a tool, an instrument of war, of terror made flesh. Or mostly flesh. He reached out instinctively, foolishly, nearly touching the glass before he could stop himself. Adjusting his glove, he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

They shared certain features, this dead man and the face that must be his - the chin, the brow, a slight downturn at the mouth. But there were video screens beside the glass that showed something else, something that stunned him. The man was the same, but he was smiling, laughing, marching with an easy sort of confidence, clapping a hand fondly on the shoulder of the man standing at his side. His face on a stranger, a stranger who had died. And that was the difference. This man had lived. But he had always been a ghost.

He read the words etched into the glass, muttering beneath his breath, tasting them. He'd never had a name. The man on the ship had tried to give him one and it was his voice that he heard now, echoing, pleading, reaching for something that wasn't there. Reaching for him. _James Buchanan Barnes_. Other voices joined the first, the memories coming in quick succession. A man calling him "kid" and ruffling his hair. A laughing girl calling him "Sarge." A red-haired woman calling him "James," her whisper warm against his ear.

It was a lie. It had to be. Rogers had only been trying to distract him, to get the upper hand. But then why hadn't he fought back? Why had he let him...? Why had he almost...?

He stared down at his hands. There had been so many missions, so many ghosts. Why was this the one that haunted him? Why did the thought of what he'd almost done hurt just as much as all the things he had?

It was his fault, his fault the memories had come rushing back, his fault the ghosts had come to collect their due. He shouldn't remember. It wasn't allowed. They would come for him, put him back in the chair, make him forget again. And suddenly that thought hurt more than anything.

"Excuse me, could you take our-?" Someone touched his arm and he whirled with a snarl, shoving them away.

It was only a woman, a stranger. She staggered backward into the arms of the man behind her, her camera falling to the floor.

"Hey, what the hell?!"

But he was already bolting for the exit, avoiding people where he could, pushing them out of the way where he couldn't. One of the security guards spotted him, but he was an old man, too far away to do any good. Dashing down the stairs, he choked on a wild laugh. If he believed all this, he was an old man, too.

It was stupid to draw attention, stupid to come here. He knew better. He'd been trained better. He slowed down as he approached the exit, blending back into the crowd as it filtered outside. People were dispersing, going back to their homes, their lives. He tried to think like they did, to remember what that meant. But the memories he found were broken, full of blood and smoke. That was all he had left.

Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he walked, letting his feet carry him where they would. The steets were empty, but he wasn't alone. He felt the ghost before he saw him, knew that he had never left.

"Where we headed, Buck?"

He shook his head. "You tell me."

"You know I can't." The ghost stopped, staring up at the front of the nearest building. After all of it, he was still calm, still smiling. Just a skinny friggin' kid who couldn't see that everything had gone to hell. "I'm not _real_, Buck."

"Yeah, I got that." He followed his gaze, looking at the sign above the door. It was as good a place as any, a place where people wouldn't ask questions, a place where maybe even the ghosts would leave him alone. Pushing open the door, he squinted into the darkness of the bar. "But if we're doing this, I think I'm gonna need a drink."


	2. Chapter 2

He'd come here to be alone. The bartender did his job well, knew to keep the glass full and keep moving. The other patrons barely looked his way, distracted by the television above the bar, by the game of pool in the corner. If they did notice him, they would see only a man, shoulders hunched and head down. Another lost soul looking to forget. He scowled into his glass. They had no idea.

But it was working. The ghosts had gone quiet. The skinny kid had followed him here, had sat quietly on the stool beside him, but a few drinks had been all it took to make him fade away. The others had come then - ambassadors and arms dealers, soldiers and assassins, men and women and children, too. He'd toasted them all, drained his glass and watched them disappear. Whatever had been done to him must have improved his constitution. The bartender had started to look concerned, but one glare and the heavy thump of his arm on the bar had fixed all that. After all, he was already dead.

Dead and drunk. It had been a long time. The memories weren't just fractured now but blurred, slipping dizzyingly away whenever he tried to focus. But he remembered this. There'd been bars during the war, bars that made this hole look like a palace. They'd known how to do it back then, had raised their glasses while the walls came crumbling down, salvaged bottles from the wreckage and tried to forget the fact that tomorrow might be the end. He laughed at that. An end would have been something.

Down the bar, an old man was watching him. He'd been there all night, buried in his own drink, lost to his own misery. Did he think he saw a kindred spirit? For his sake, he hoped that wasn't true. Still, when the man raised his glass, he raised his in return. _To old ghosts._

The bartender passed again, glancing up as the image on the television changed. The game was being interrupted for a news bulletin, replaying footage from a hearing held that afternoon. The whole world was on the verge of collapse, a world that he'd helped create, a world that he'd helped destroy. More guilt, more ghosts. But he hadn't expected to see them on television, hadn't expected other people to see them, too.

Most of the bar had stopped to watch the woman on the screen. She was being questioned about the attack, facing the stern-faced panel with a defiant calm that made his head swim. He'd heard that voice before. She'd whispered to him back at the museum, whispered to him in his dreams. Even now, she seemed to reach out to him, looking straight into the camera.

"James."

She sat on the stool beside him, a hazy apparition, shifting and fading, but with the same red hair, the same challenge in her eyes. He searched his memory, fighting the vertigo, taking another drink to calm the bile rising in his throat.

"[You're drunk.]" She spoke in Russian. He still wasn't certain how many languages might be rattling around in his head, but at least if he was going to talk to himself no one would overhear.

"[That was the idea.]"

She crossed her legs, resting an elbow on the bar. He saw it then, the hole in her belly, the blood seeping through her shirt. There was another bullet wound in her shoulder, fresh and red and angry. He could feel the gun again in his hands, the cold certainty that came from knowing that he wouldn't miss.

"[...I killed you.]

She smiled. "[You tried. More than once.]"

He glanced up at the screen. She was older now and speaking flawless English, but a ghost was still a ghost. He drained half his glass, willing her to go away. But when he closed his eyes, he saw her again. Not from a distance, not aiming down the barrel at a target. She was close, warm, whispering in his ear, burying her face against his neck. A ghost that he had known. A ghost with a name.

His voice was thick. "Natalia."

"[Close enough.]"

Behind him someone sniggered. "Lock 'em all up and be done with it. We saw what happened in New York. Now D.C. You think any of that would have happened if they weren't there?"

He made a fist on the bar, willing himself not to turn around. The ghost pursed her lips.

"Hell yeah. You can't call yourself a hero when it's your own damn mess." More voices chimed in in agreement, the game of pool momentarily forgotten.

"What about Captain America?"

"Won't even show his face. Gone into hiding or something. That's guilt, you ask me. The whole thing's probably his fault."

The ghost had turned around, leaning back on her stool to watch the show. He pinched shut his eyes, breathing deep, his nails digging into his palm.

"They gotta pay the price. Accountability, y'know? Send that little traitor bitch my way and I'll show her what's what."

The others howled with laughter. "Yeah, man. Get her workin' off that debt to society."

The world went still. His opened his eyes, saw the ghost watching him, saw her slowly smile. Then he was spinning around, throwing himself forward, driving his fist into the belly of the first man that he saw. The man staggered backward, swinging wildly as the next blow took him in the jaw. He went down hard, but his friends were circling around, arming themselves with whatever was to hand.

Someone cracked a pool cue across his back and he turned, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it behind him until the shoulder popped. Another came at him with a bottle and he planted a kick in his stomach, spinning the other man around and sending them both crashing into a table. The other patrons had fled. Only one man was left on his feet, the man who had started it all, a barrel-chested beast glaring at him from across the pool table.

And still he was undeterred. Looking down at his fallen friends, he spat. "Fuck you, man."

With a growl, he launched himself across the table at the man, the momentum carrying them both to the floor. His opponent was bigger, stronger, strong enough to get an arm between them, to turn and pin him to the floor. The pain spread through his jaw as a meaty fist came down, as the man drove a knee into his chest. He could fight him, throw him off, but he let the blows come, lost himself to the blinding glare that flared behind his eyes.

"That's what I thought. You think you're like them? Wanna be the hero?"

He opened one eye, sucking at his split lip. "No. I don't." Then he reached up, locking his hand around the man's wrist, twisting until it cracked. His glove was gone, his arm exposed. As his hand locked around the man's throat, his eyes bulged, his mouth working in wordless disbelief. He lifted him bodily, regaining leverage, one good punch sending the man sprawling on the floor.

The world had gone quiet again. The ghost had left him, the television returning to the game. Some of the men were groaning, but they wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Walking back to the bar, he sank back onto his stool. The bartender crouched behind the counter, a shotgun in his hands, eyes narrowing as he watched the stranger take a long, slow sip.

"Mind if I finish my drink?" With a tired smile, he tossed a wad of bills on the bar.

A door slammed in the back and the bartender jerked up in surprise, but it was only the old man from down the bar, wiping his hands as he returned from the bathroom. Surveying the room, he nodded.

"You do that?"

"Yeah."

"S'nice work. Kids never could keep their mouths shut." He sat down on the stool beside him. "Bet they didn't know who they were messing with."

He hadn't been listening, not really, but now he glanced over at the old man, saw his knowing grin. "What?"

"Wasn't sure it was you at first. You could use a shave, Sergeant."

He turned his face away, staring down into his glass. "You're drunk, old man."

"No doubt. Still have eyes, though."

"Do I _know_ you?" He squinted at the man. He was old, but not _that_ old.

"No, sir. But I know you. You was already dead and gone - so they say - when I signed up. Different time, different war, but we all carry it the same. I grew up with the stories, read all about you. Hell, you're half the reason I enlisted. Gotta say, it's an honor."

He'd known people would be hunting him, knew that being recognized would land him back where he'd started, or worse. But this he'd never expected. The old man was drunk, confused. The man he thought he saw was dead, just another ghost.

He drained his glass and pushed to his feet. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Impossible, right? That's what I thought, too. But look around us. Aliens attacking, gods walking the earth, old soldiers coming back from the dead. It's not like you're the first. Makes a guy like me think impossible's not such a big deal. Maybe the end don't have to be forever."

He stared down at the man. Even drunk, his eyes flared with a certainty, an acceptance worth envying.

With a sigh, he shook his head and left a few more bills on the counter before turning for the door. "Just... keep it to yourself, okay?"

No problem, Sarge." The old man smiled, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And say 'hi' to Captain America for me."


	3. Chapter 3

They'd left him in the cold. He remembered this – the dingy walls of the darkened room, the creak of the chains holding his arms above his head. Most of all, he remembered the smell. Men had died here. Men had burned. Zola's lab. The War, back when HYDRA had grown unchecked, back when his unit had been prisoners of the Red Skull. He remembered this. Because it was the first time he'd accepted that there was no hope.

But the memory was wrong. It belonged to someone else. The arms that stretched above him, suspending him from the ceiling, should have been whole. But instead his left arm glinted in the dim, whirring as it strained uselessly against his chains. His hair hung limp against his face as he stared down at his chest, saw the scars of more years than that soldier ever should have known. This wasn't a memory. It was a dream.

A door opened at the far end of the room, throwing a long shaft of light across him. He squinted into it, expecting Zola, expecting more tests. But the figure cast a long, sinuous shadow, the walls ringing with the sharp click of high heels. The woman stalked toward him on swaying steps, her features taking shape in the darkness, her face framed by a shadowy halo of black curls. He wet his lips, trying to find a name for her.

Because he knew her, had seen her in the swirling, screaming blur of faces that waited whenever he closed his eyes. Another ghost come to show him what he'd done. Another ghost that he had made.

Pursing her lips, she brushed his hair back from his face and tucked it behind his ear, studying him with wide brown eyes. There was nothing tender in them, nothing angry. Only cold.

She dragged a painted nail down his chest, his flesh prickling beneath her touch. _Help me_, he wanted to say. But he had trained for this, trained to resist, to give them nothing no matter what tortures they devised. He'd held out once, hadn't he? But that had been another time, another man. This was something worse.

The woman leaned close, walking her fingers up his chest. When she reached his throat, her hand clamped down, her whisper cold against his ear. "Bogota, 1979."

Light burst behind his eyes, her grip tightening, choking the life from him. Bound as he was, he couldn't fight her, even if he'd wanted to. Because he remembered now, remembered her, the way her face had purpled, the way her neck had snapped so easily beneath his hands. He had killed her and she was repaying him in kind.

As the darkness took him, he willed himself to feel this, to know what he had done. He bucked against the chains, his body fighting feebly for air. His head was pounding, his muscles rigid, but still the ghost only watched, her gaze cool and impassive, her eyes filling his vision as the world went black.

And then she was gone. He had died and she had left him hanging in his chains, alone again in the darkness. Across the room, the door opened again, another shadow stretching toward him. He knew now what he was facing. It was only a dream, but for decades the nightmare had been real. The nightmare had been him. It didn't help to know that he was dreaming. Because here, the ghosts could touch him. Here, they were the same.

He wouldn't fight them, wouldn't let them see him break. Because he deserved this, deserved it all.

"Oran, 1957," said the old man who came next, pressing a finger to his forehead. It drove deep between his eyes, parting flesh and bone, opening his skull exactly where his bullet had opened the old man's. Blood rushed down, blinding him as the darkness came again.

"Budapest, 1949," said the stern-faced man who opened his throat. "Gaza, 2008," said a man in a dark suit as he drove two fingers between his ribs, following the path of the knife that had killed him. Always the pain, always the darkness. And then the creak of the door, the light blinding him as the scene started over again.

"Bujumbura, 1965" beat him bloody, made him feel it as his rib splintered and pierced his lung, relief coming only when he felt his skull cave in. "St. Petersburg, 1952" took even longer, bringing him to dizzying heights of pain, making him pay for every piece of information he'd extracted. And yet he committed it all to memory, the places and dates that they gave him. If he couldn't carry their names, he would carry this.

"Milano, 1969" was the one who finally made him scream. She came to him on timid steps, her slippers whispering in the dark. Just a child, a little girl. Where she touched him, his skin puckered and burned, blackening and falling away. He remembered the bombing, the acceptable collateral damage. She burned behind his eyes as his flesh sizzled and peeled, reduced to what he had made her, a tiny child sculpted all of ash.

He screamed then, straining against his chains, lost beyond all reason. _Come on_, he willed them. _Finish it._ And come they did. But it was far from over. He screamed for every thrust of his blade, screamed for every bullet, every bomb. He let them beat him, let them kill him, let them stare. The faces blurred again, lost in a sea of dates and names, years he never should have seen, places he never should have been. But he had. And this was his punishment.

His chest heaved as the darkness came again, his arms straining as he slumped in his chains. He turned his face from the light as the door opened, didn't look up as the footsteps echoed though the room. Whatever he'd done, he deserved. But the ghost didn't touch him, didn't speak until he raised his head.

He knew her. His mind was clouded. It was hard to think. But he knew her red hair, her searching eyes, the knowing twitch of her lips.

He cleared his throat, his voice breaking. "Odessa, 2009."

"That's right." She tilted her head. Then she stepped close, driving a finger into his belly, piercing him where his bullet had pierced her.

He ground his teeth, flinching instinctively away. But then he took a shuddering breath, leaning into her touch.

The ghost arched a brow. She pulled her finger free, leaving him gasping. Then she drove it hard into his shoulder. "Washington D.C., 2014."

He groaned but forced himself to open his eyes, to see her as he had seen all the rest. But she wasn't like them, wasn't watching him with cold detachment. There was curiosity in her gaze, her eyes softening with something almost like concern.

He wet his lips. "Natalia."

She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. Her hands moved over his chest and he flinched again, but she was only exploring, lightly tracing his scars. She was going to hurt him. The ghosts were only there to hurt him. But when she raised her eyes to his, they were red and glistening.

"Oh, god. James."

"That's not my name!" He jerked against his chains, screaming into the darkness, willing her to go away. Pain, he deserved. But pity was worse.

"You've gotta stop this, Buck." He hadn't seen the second shadow, stepping through the door behind her. His hands were thrust into the pockets of a coat that was too big for him, his hair falling into his eyes no matter how hard he tried to slick it to the side. He knew that smile, knew the sadness that it hid.

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck. I'm here." He was just a skinny kid, trying to put on a brave face. He stopped beside Natalia, the two ghosts sharing a look before turning back to him. "What are you doing, Buck?"

"Remembering."

"There's gotta be a better way than this."

"Yeah? You got any ideas, smart guy?"

The ghost smiled and shook his head. "Afraid not. I'm not real."

"You keep saying that. So why don't you just go?"

"Why don't you? Just let it go, Buck."

"Just let it go," Natalia echoed.

Other voices chimed in, but the words twisted mockingly, lost to the cacophony of dates and half-forgotten places. It wasn't that easy. It wasn't up to him. There was no escape.

He shook his head, shuddering in his chains. "…I can't."

"Then start small. I did." The skinny kid smiled up at him. "Why don't you just wake up?"

The words washed over him, the first warmth that he had felt since the dream began. He woke gasping, reaching for something that he couldn't remember. No chains, no ghosts, no pain. The world came back in pieces – the glare of the morning sun, the stink of the garbage can beside him, the stiff brick of the wall at his back. He'd slept on the street.

He was awake, but what did it matter? At least in the dream, things made sense. There'd been order, a reason, a price to be paid. Here, what did he have? Huddling back against the wall, he put his head in his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

He stood beside the river, watching as the recovery crews cleared away the debris. HYDRA's warships had been destroyed. This should have been a victory. But people had a hard time seeing it that way when the wreckage fell in their own backyards. War he remembered, but now the war had come home. They'd brought him back and he had brought this with him.

He watched as they dredged the water, watched as they dragged their loads to shore. He knew what lay beneath the tarps lined up at the water's edge, knew why the workers kept their distance. He'd dredged up a body of his own not far from here, had left him gasping on his back in the mud. But they weren't the only ones who had fallen that day. No matter how long they worked, there would always be more ghosts.

Shrugging deeper into his jacket, he turned and headed back through the park. He didn't know this city – not really – but he knew what it represented. He'd spent the morning walking among the monuments, slipping unseen through the crowds, trying to remember what it had been like to believe, to have something worth protecting. It was easier when you didn't know the cost.

And then his feet had carried him here. It was a stupid idea. If anyone was looking for him this was where they'd start, the place where he'd slipped off the grid. But as his eyes scanned the park, he realized that he wasn't looking for HYDRA, for the authorities coming to bring him in. He was looking for a ghost, the first ghost that had tried to reach him, the ghost that had been too stubborn to let him die. Would the ghost be searching for him? Would anyone? He shut his eyes, but it wasn't fear that made him ball his fists in his pockets. It was disappointment.

"Hey! Get off!"

He turned, his heart thundering in his ears. The shouts were coming from up the path, where a girl struggled against a much larger man, both of them tugging at a battered backpack. As he watched, the girl kicked at the man's shin, swinging wildly at his face.

"Let go, asshole! That's mine!"

He didn't remember running, didn't remember pulling the man off of her. But then the man was laying at his feet, staring up at him in horror, scrambling away as he tried to stem the blood pouring from his nose.

"Yeah, that's right!" the girl called after him. "You'd better freakin' run!" She hugged the backpack to her chest, scowling down at its broken strap. But when she looked up at him, she smiled. "Thanks, dude. That was pretty badass."

He blinked down at her. She was just a skinny thing, a teenager. Her coat was frayed and much too big for her, her pale hair falling limply into her eyes. They narrowed as she stared up at him, her head tilting in concern.

"Hey, hero. You okay?"

He shook his head, struggling to focus. He didn't know her, but the ghosts were there, whispering in his ear, reflected in her crooked smile. Bullies, he remembered. Bullies and little guys who never knew when to back down from a fight.

He cleared his throat. "Are you alright?"

Pushing up her sleeve, she showed him the scratch on her arm. "I've had worse."

"What were you thinking? He could have hurt you."

She shrugged. "He was trying to take my stuff. If I didn't stop him, who would?" Laughing, she poked him in the chest. "Except you. And they say chivalry's dead."

It was an effort not to flinch away. The girl noticed.

"So… I've gotta sew this up." She gestured with her broken strap. "You staying at the mission?"

"What?"

"The shelter? There's one a few blocks from here." She squinted at him. "Unless you dress that way on purpose."

"You think I'm homeless."

"Are you?"

It was a simple question. He could remember rooms, addresses, safe houses. But even the earliest memories seemed wrong. Home wasn't a place. Home was camps and foxholes and stupid jokes. Home was secret rendezvous and soft red hair.

The girl was staring at him. "Well?"

"…Yeah."

"Yeah? Me, too. Well, more like 'temporarily displaced.' Got myself into a bit of a situation." She shrugged, nodding up the path. "When's the last time you had a hot meal,…?"

She was waiting for him to give her a name. Could he tell her that he didn't have one? That he never had? She would think he was crazy. She would know. But she was talking to him – really talking to him – and he couldn't let that go.

She studied his face. "Geez, sorry I asked."

"No. Sorry. I…" The ghosts had tried to give him a name. The museum had written it boldly across their walls for all the world to see. But it still felt like a lie. His head spun, dizzy and desperate, grasping at the first thing that came to mind. "Steve." He winced, but it was too late.

"Gina." She held out her hand, pulling it back with a shrug when he failed to take it. "Come on, Stevie. Let's go get you cleaned up."

She led him through the park and he fell into step beside her, his stomach rumbling. He hadn't thought of it until she mentioned it, but he couldn't remember the last time that he'd eaten. A shower wouldn't hurt either. They must have made an odd pair – her with her oversized clothes and stringy hair, him with his cap pulled low and eyes fixed on the ground. But as they made their way onto the bustling afternoon street, she held her head high, shooting a defiant glare at any who looked their way. She might be little, but it wasn't size that made you tough.

She seemed content to walk in silence and he was grateful for that. But as they stopped before the shelter entrance, he could feel her eyes on him again.

"You gonna be okay with this, dude? You look a little jumpy."

She had no idea. But he had nowhere else to be. He nodded.

Inside the walls were cramped and peeling, the makeshift cafeteria little more than a low-ceilinged room. But someone had put flowers on the tables and music played faintly overhead. No one asked for more than their names and the faces that spooned food onto his tray were smiling. These people really were doing their best, trying only to be kind. He'd forgotten what that was like.

He tried not to think about the fact that there was only one exit, tried not to wonder what might be waiting down the other halls. No one here looked like a threat, but he found a table near the wall, putting his back to it as Gina sat down across from him.

"If you need to bolt, I'll cover you." She grinned, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. Her eyes flitted to the wall above him, checking the clock. "Create a distraction or something. I'm good at that."

He kept his eyes on his plate, watching her beneath the brim of his hat as they lapsed into silence. At least the food was warm, warm enough to ease the tension in his shoulders, warm enough to remind him of just how tired he was. But sleep brought the ghosts. If he could help it, he might never sleep again.

When she checked the time again, he followed her gaze, nodding at the clock. "You have somewhere to be?"

"Got a hot date later." She smirked. "What's with the arm?"

"What?"

She pointed with her fork. "The arm. The one you're not using. You hurt or something?"

He shook his head. He'd lost his glove in the bar, had been keeping his hand in his pocket to hide it. She was observant, but she just a kid, a kid who had helped him, a kid who had fed him. It wasn't trust, but he didn't have a lie to give her. "It's… a prosthetic."

"Yeah? Can I see?"

"No."

She pursed her lips into an exaggerated pout. "You got a prosthetic head, too? You can take the hat off, you know. The whole man-of-mystery thing is kinda weirding me out."

He scanned the room. No one was watching them. There were no cameras, no waiting eyes, no one who could recognize him for what he was. And what was he? Just another huddled, faceless shell, just like all the rest of them. Not too bad, as covers go. Sliding off his hat, he sat it on the table and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Holy crap. You actually might be kinda cute under there." Gina laughed at his expression. "Don't worry, dude, you're not my type. But I can help you with your hair. I mean, if you want. I used to cut my brother's."

He scratched at his chin, considering. "You have a brother?"

"Look at you, making conversation." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "_Had_ a brother. But he was always running off, getting himself into trouble. Felt like I was bailing him out of shit all the time, y'know?"

The ghosts were whispering again but, for once, he didn't try to shut them out. "Yeah… I do."

Pushing her empty plate away, she looked up at him. "Now you've gone and made me sad. So make it up to me, let me fix you up."

"Why?"

"Because you're weird and you smell. And I'm bored." She stood, grinning down at him as she gathered up their plates. "I'm gonna go see about a shower and find some scissors. Just… don't freak out and break any more noses while I'm gone, okay?"

"Okay." He watched her go, a tiny blonde figure navigating between the tables. He could still make the exit, could still get away. But instead he simply sat, staring at his hands. He wasn't safe, but safe was never an option. At least here it was warm. Besides, what else did he have to lose?


	5. Chapter 5

He remembered the rain. He remembered the cold of it trickling down his neck, stinging his cheeks, pinging against his arm. People kept their heads down in the rain, huddled against it, hurrying on their way. They never saw him coming. And then, when it was done, the rain would wash it all away.

He stared down at his hands, watching the water flow between his fingers. He'd attacked those morons in the bar, the man in the park. He'd done it without thinking. Had he really thought things could be different? He might have failed in his mission, but he was still wiping blood from his hands.

He rubbed at the knuckles of his good hand, scrubbed until they were cracked and raw. The water ran red again, but the blood was his now.

But this wasn't rain, wasn't cold. The water beat warm against his scalp, the shower filling with steam. He turned his back to the spray, letting it pound against his shoulders as he braced an arm on the wall. Warm, but not warm enough. He'd spent so long in the cold. Twisting the dial, he felt the water grow hotter. He kept twisting until it burned.

The steam thickened, turning the world white. The ghosts were whispering again, but not of rain, not of blood. He could remember training, letting the shower soothe away the ache in his muscles. Every night they had trained and every night she had met him here, safe beneath the water, hidden by the steam. He pinched shut his eyes, but he could still feel her behind him, slipping her arm around him to trace her fingers down his chest. The red-haired ghost. He kept his eyes closed, uncertain if he was more afraid of seeing her there or seeing that she wasn't.

"James." Her breath was warm against his ear. "You have to stop this."

He shrugged her off, the elbow that he thrust behind him finding only empty air. With a growl, he drove his fist into the wall, remembering too late that he'd already opened his knuckles. The tile cracked, sending red rivulets running toward the drain.

Turning off the water, he peered outside, getting his bearings. The homeless shelter. The girl, Gina, who had brought him here. At least he was alone, the other shower stall empty. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped to the sink and wiped the fog from the mirror.

The man who stared back at him was a stranger, a pair of wild eyes peering out from a tangle of dark hair. Smoothing it back from his forehead, he leaned closer, studying the details, trying to find something familiar, something that made sense. He thought about the museum, the smiling man from the old newsreels. But this face was stern, cold. A man made all of ice. How many of the ghosts had looked up at this face before the end? How many had realized it would be the last thing they ever saw?

His eyes moved lower, over his beard, his chest. There were scars there, though he couldn't remember which were real and which the ghosts had made when they visited him in his dreams. The worst were on his shoulder, the puckered red grooves that separated metal from flesh. He didn't think much about the arm, could barely remember a time when it hadn't been a part of him. But now he forced himself to look, his fingers gingerly tracing the scars, flinching away even though there was no pain.

He raised the arm, studying the flesh beneath. It moved differently than the metal, another reminder that he was something broken, something pieced back together, something wrong. He stretched it higher, watching in the mirror as his skin pulled and strained. The arm was strong, whirring eagerly. How high could he stretch it? How much force would it take to snap the thing off?

With a sigh, he let it fall, bracing both hands on the sink. Someone had laid out a comb and plastic razor. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the blade. The ghosts stirred, their whispers rasping and angry.

He did his best to block them out. Soaping his face, he picked up the razor, watching as it cut away the shadow to reveal the man beneath. His hands remembered shaving well enough. He must have done this before. It was something normal, something for himself. It didn't matter that he didn't know who that was.

The razor nicked his skin and he hissed, watching the thin stream of blood well and snake its way down his neck. The ghosts were laughing, pressing in behind his eyes. Throats he had opened, screams he had cut short, blood and blood and blood. He stared down at the sink, doing his best to breathe. When he looked up, the mirror had fogged again. Just another shadow, a ghost without a face.

Wiping it clear, he stared at the wound. It was just a tiny thing, the cut already clotting. He put the razor to his neck again, pressing harder, testing himself, feeling the flesh give. The ghosts would never leave him, but he knew what they wanted now. Sometimes the simplest solution was right in front of you.

A knock at the door startled him. He jerked, sending the razor clattering to the floor.

"Hey, dude. You okay in there?" Gina. She'd left him here and disappeared into the women's restroom for a shower of her own. Apparently he'd lingered too long.

"No. Yes. Give me a minute." Hurriedly, he tugged on his pants and pulled his shirt over his head. But he was still exposed, his arm gleaming in the mirror. Shrugging back into his jacket, he thrust his hand into his pocket and opened the door.

Gina smiled up at him, two steaming mugs in her hands and a pair of scissors tucked beneath her arm. "Brought coffee. You looked like you were about to nod off."

He took the mug, grateful for the warmth seeping through his fingers, spreading through him as he took a sip. But Gina was staring at his hand.

"Christ. What did you do?"

She gave him no time to protest as she took him by the wrist and dragged him back to the sink. Setting their cups on the counter, she thrust his hand beneath the cold water and shook her head. "Just… hold it there. I'll be right back."

She returned a moment later with bandages and a folding chair. Setting the chair before the mirror, she pointed. "Sit."

"You don't need to—"

"_Sit_."

He sat. Obedience was a hard habit to break. Gently, she took his hand, shaking her head as he flinched instinctively away.

"Sorry."

"Dude, what happened to you?" She wrapped the bandage around his knuckles, pulling tight.

He winced. "Long story."

"Isn't everyone's?" Turning away, she picked up the comb. "Drink your coffee. It's getting cold."

He took a sip, watching in the mirror as she positioned herself behind him. Catching his eye in the reflection, she gave him a crooked smile. The ghosts stirred again, smiling with her. He understood it now. She had the same color hair, the same sad eyes. She was new – _real_ – but somehow familiar. Just some skinny little punk who thought he was worth her time.

He drained his mug and set it down. The warmth spread through him, weighing him down. He remembered coffee, but how long had it been? Soon the ghosts were buzzing, his head swimming.

But the kid was there, squeezing his shoulder. "Easy, Buck."

"What?"

Gina shook her head, watching him in the mirror. "I didn't say anything."

The reflection shifted before his eyes, a ghost and then a girl, a face made all of fog. He shut his eyes to it, searching for something real – the pain in his hand, the cool metal of the chair beneath him. But he'd been here before. The chair, the pain. It was happening again.

Something pricked his scalp and he threw himself forward, his arm lashing out behind him.

"Fuck, dude!"

Gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes. Gina had sagged back against the wall, the comb falling from her hand. She was… He'd almost… His head was pounding, the memories threatening to drag him under. He hung his head, tangling his fingers in his hair.

After a moment, he could hear her footsteps, slow and hesitant. "You okay?"

He didn't look up. "Did I hurt you?"

"Nah, you missed. I'm good."

"I'm sorry. I just… I don't like people messing with my head."

"No haircut. Got it." When he looked up, she was smiling down at him. "That's one hell of a prosthetic."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah."

She didn't ask for more, didn't push. "So look, they don't have any beds here tonight, but there's another shelter uptown. They've got a van that can take us there."

The whispers returned, but they were faint now, distant. He was so damn tired. "Why are you helping me?"

"I told you. I'm bored. Besides, you really gonna tell me you couldn't use it?"

"You should stay away from me. I could… I might hurt you."

"I'll make you a deal. You _don't_ hurt me and I'll find you a warm place to sleep tonight." She offered him her hand. "Trust me?"

He stared at it. She didn't know what she was asking, didn't know the risk. But if she was willing to take a chance on someone like him, how could he do any less? She was just a kid. Sometimes you had to start small.

He took her hand and she grinned. "Cool. Let's take a ride."

By the time they reached the cafeteria, he was breathing heavily, his head spinning again. He wanted to tell her to run, to leave him here. He was unstable, erratic, dangerous. But he couldn't seem to find the words.

The ghosts were clamoring, so faint he could barely hear them. One voice rose above the rest and it was a long moment before he recognized it as his own. "Not right…"

Gina led him out a rear entrance, supporting him as he sagged. "You sick, dude? Don't worry, the docs will take a look at you."

"No doctors."

"Sure, Buck. Whatever you say." Her face shifted again. Not her. Not real. None of this was real.

A van rumbled up the back street toward them, moving fast, its windows blackened. Too fast. No… this wasn't…

It braked hard, the door flying open as two men jumped out to grab him. He swung at the first, knocking him back inside. But he'd overbalanced, his limbs weighing him down. Gina caught him as he stumbled. But it wasn't her, wasn't her face. It was a ghost that stared up at him, a ghost that was trying to help him. He was losing his goddamn mind.

"Steve?"

The man he'd hit righted himself, rubbing at his chin. "Get him inside. And take that thing off. It's creepy."

"Yeah, it's on the fritz anyway." As he watched Gina ran a hand across her face, her features blurring, pulling away in a thin film. The face beneath was older, the face of a stranger.

"Gina?"

"Not quite. But you can go ahead and pass out now." She turned to the men. "You took your sweet time getting here."

"And you were supposed to subdue the target."

"He's subdued. And without a firefight in the middle of downtown, I might add."

She'd helped him, said he could trust her. This wasn't her, wasn't real. Staggering forward, he grabbed her arm.

She whirled on him so quickly that he lurched backward, her gun leveled at his forehead. "Get him in the van before he freaks out again. I doubt he's even salvageable, but I'd rather not have to explain why I had to put a bullet in his head."

His voice was thick, his tongue too heavy, but as the others hauled him into the van, he managed to choke out a word. "…Why?"

"Well, _dude_, you know what they say…" She smirked, but her eyes were cold. It crawled over his skin, sinking into his gut. She'd given him something, slipped it into his coffee, somehow changed her face to look like someone he would trust.

Panicked, he reached out, searching for the ghosts, but even they had left him. There was only the darkness, only the cold. As it took him, Gina leaned close, whispering in his ear.

"Hail Hydra."


	6. Chapter 6

More than ghosts waited for him in the darkness, more than guilt. Missions came back in splintered fragments, flashes of the horrors wrought by his hands. But there were other memories, moments that had come in between. Other hands – piercing, cutting, opening his flesh. Cruel tools and glowing monitors, straps cinched tight around his arms, blinding light and faceless voices. A lifetime of pain igniting behind his eyes, searing through his skull, coursing electric through his body until every muscle was rigid and contorted, his lungs burning with screams that he barely recognized as his own. The memories had been waiting for him, a lifetime of agony crashing back all at once.

They'd taken who he was, again and again and again, ripped it out of him and cauterized the wound. And when there'd been nothing left, they'd taken that too.

"…Most importantly, we erase the memory of the procedure." More jumbled voices, voices of men long dead, speaking above him as though he wasn't there. "The human mind is not equipped to recall its own destruction… comprehension of the paradox… fragmentation of an already damaged mind…"

The cold terror of the words burned away as the pain ripped through him again, memory after memory after memory. When the ghosts came for him, he could tell himself that he had earned this, that the pain visited back on him was a mirror of the pain he had caused. Was this any different? He should have remembered, shouldn't have been allowed to forget. That weight was his to carry. But Hydra had stripped it all away.

He'd fought them, once. So they'd found new ways of making it hurt, new ways to unmake him, ways that his body would remember even after his mind was lost. When had he stopped fighting? He remembered the man in the suit, remembered sitting obediently in the chair, letting them tighten the straps, biting down on the mouth guard as they lowered the machine that would set a fire in his skull. Even an animal knows to shy away from pain. But they had made him into something even less.

There were more voices in the fog now, different, closer. The pain was receding, fading back into memory. His head still throbbed, but it was a new ache, solid and sickeningly real.

"Are we ready?"

"Nearly. But the scans… we actually see evidence of _regeneration_. I can't explain it. The procedure may not be as effective."

Hydra. They'd planted an operative in the park, someone to drug him and bring him in, someone who could change their face and twist his mind.

"Then try harder. Go deeper."

"The risks—"

"Wipe his mind or liquefy it. If you fail, we've been authorized to scrap the project and start over."

He could feel the chair beneath him, cold and familiar. The pain whispered again, echoing behind his temples. He knew what came next. The memories were a torment, but they were _his_. He might wake screaming, might see things that weren't there… but that was more than he'd known about himself in a very long time. It was _something_. And they wanted to take it away again.

Or kill him. The procedure might be all it took, but he couldn't take that chance. It might work. He would forget again, be sent back into the cold – or worse, into the field. How many more ghosts would he make? How many more times would they make him forget? He couldn't let that happen. He'd make sure they killed him first.

He tensed, testing the straps binding his arms, his legs. His years of obedience had made them sloppy. One good push would free his left arm. But he forced himself to go still, to listen. The room was large, open and drafty. He'd heard two voices, but there were at least three sets of footsteps moving around him, more some distance away. He could hear the shift of a weapon in someone's hands, probably a watching guard.

Good. He could take out the techs with no problem, but what he wanted was someone to fight back, someone who could end this. No more forgetting, no more cold, no more ghosts.

"He still out?" Someone leaned close. He could feel the warmth of them, their breath on his face. It was time.

He tensed, ready to lunge, but a sudden crash split the air, the room echoing with the sound of distant gunfire.

"The hell—?"

Whoever had been leaning over him was gone, the room around him breaking into chaos. No one noticed when he opened his eyes.

There were half a dozen guards in the room, all of them forming up around the door, taking defensive positions. They were in some sort of warehouse, a huge room with Hydra's equipment set up in the center. There was only one exit that he could see, a darkened hallway filled with shouting and more gunfire. He hadn't needed the distraction, but whoever'd put Hydra on the ropes had done him a favor.

Jerking his arm free, he ripped off his restraints and found himself staring up into the face of a startled engineer. It was a face he knew. He'd see it before, working the machines while the man in the suit looked on. He'd seen those eyes go cold as the pain ripped through him, over and over again.

His hand closed around the man's throat, pulling him down until their faces were only inches apart. He could be cold, too. They'd made sure of that.

A simple twist was all it took. He left the man sprawled in the chair, but it wasn't the irony that made him pause. The ghosts returned in force, clamoring in time to the pounding in his head, the blood thundering through his veins. But they weren't angry, not anymore.

His hands had done what they were meant to do. Staring down at them, he clenched his fists. Hydra had trained him well, turned him into a weapon that they could control. But they weren't in control anymore.

A gun cocked behind him. "Don't move."

He didn't have to. He knew what the ghosts wanted now. They wanted him to know what he had done. They wanted him to pay. But it was more than that. It was more than him. He'd taken everything from them, but at least he could give them this.

"Put your hands up!"

His smiled. _His_ hands.

The rest was instinct. He dropped low, sweeping the man's legs from beneath him. A quick jab shattered his elbow as he fell, the gun dropping to the floor. They both lunged for it, but the guard's arm was useless, his mouth going slack as he found the barrel pressed between his eyes.

He wet his lips, his whisper hoarse. "Hail Hydra."

It was the wrong thing to say.

He'd expected there to be another technician, had expected to see the man in the suit looking on. But only two other guards remained in the room, the rest having fled or ventured out to deal with the noise in the hallway beyond. One of them was quick enough to turn and get off a shot, forcing him to roll aside and take cover behind the chair. But they had an unknown enemy at their backs and no cover of their own. Two more shots and he was all alone.

He stood. His head no longer ached. His hands were steady. He couldn't remember the last time things had felt so clear. Even the ghosts were quiet, sated. At least for now.

He made himself look down at the men as he stepped over them, committing their faces to memory. Maybe he would see them in his dreams, but it was the logo on their chests that drew his eye. They were men, yes, but they were also Hydra. Hydra, who had made him what he was. Hydra, who had chosen his targets. Hydra, who had sent him out into the world as their great strong fist.

He would turn that fist back on them, hit them and keep hitting them until there was nothing left. He would be the man they'd made him to be. He would give the ghosts their revenge.

They hounded him as he made his way out into the compound, spurring him on, quieting momentarily whenever another of the famed heads of Hydra fell at his feet. The whole "two more will take its place" thing wasn't much of an exaggeration. There was no shortage of guards, no shortage of weapons to pick up once they'd gone still. And that suited him just fine.

Most of them didn't realize they were fighting on two fronts. He had the element of surprise. He could still hear fighting ahead, gunfire and screams. Soon he smelled smoke. Whoever was out there was just as determined as he was to burn Hydra to the ground.

Rounding a corner, he collided with another guard. She was so short that he'd almost missed her, but there was no mistaking the gun pressed to his chest. "Gina" she'd called herself. Her face had been different then, but he saw her now for what she was. Not a child, just petite. Eyes not sad, but cold. Not a ghost, but Hydra.

Before he could speak, she pulled the trigger, the chamber clicking empty. Now there was something in those eyes. Now there was fear.

"Shit!"

His hand closed around the gun, twisting it out of her grasp. He knew what came next. They both did.

But he shook his head, gritting his teeth. "Go."

It was the only chance she was going to get. She whirled away, running for the door. But at the last second she lunged, grabbing another gun from the belt of a fallen guard. She was quick, but the speed cost her her aim, the shot embedding itself in the wall behind him.

He cursed beneath his breath, but before he could return fire she lurched forward, two shots taking her in the back.

"Hold it right there, Barnes."

The speaker stepped through the door, trailing smoke and screams. He was hooded, his weapon held steady before him. There was something familiar about him, something hard, something still.

He steadied his aim, holding the figure in his sights.

It ignored him, nodding down at Gina. "Friend of yours?"

No. Just a reminder. "Hydra."

"Like I said: _friend of yours_? Last I checked, you were their golden boy." The man knew his name, knew what he had been.

He shook his head. "Not anymore."

"Glad to hear that. Still gonna keep my gun on you, all the same. You know…" Reaching up with his free hand, he lowered his hood. "Trust issues."

The world spun. He'd seen this face before, seen it through smoke and wreckage, seen it through the cold lens of his scope, seen it in his dreams. Another mission, one of his last. Another ghost.

"I… killed you."

"You came damn close." The man who had been Nick Fury watched him from behind dark glasses. "There's not many people who can say that."

"It's not possible."

"Says the ninety-year-old with the metal arm."

"I don't miss."

"Which is why we're still talking. Much as I might want to put a bullet in you, got a feeling you might be useful." He surveyed the room. "This little party of yours… revenge?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds like we want the same thing, soldier."

He nodded past Fury to the door, to the noise outside. "I'm not joining your army."

"No army. Just a few friends. We get the job done. Got a friend who's looking for you, too." He smirked. "Told him I'd keep an eye out."

Fury was testing him, probing for a weakness. His eyes strayed to Gina. She'd done the same thing, found the same button to push. And yet he wanted to know, _had_ to know.

"Is he…?"

"Not here. But Rogers _is_ looking. Seems to think you saved his life, despite you putting three bullets in him. Seems to think there's still a person in there."

He pinched shut his eyes. _Rogers_. The man on the ship. The skinny kid with the busted lip. Captain friggin' America. He shook his head. The ghosts were whispering again. _Steve_. And he had shot him, had nearly beaten him to death.

"So, Barnes… you a person?"

Beyond the door there was another crash, the sound of gunfire abruptly cut short. The fire was spreading, casting flickering shadows through the smoke.

Fury gave him a long look before angling himself toward the door. He didn't quite turn his back. He wasn't stupid. "You want a chance to answer that question, we're gonna need to get out of here."

He was right. The building was coming down. All of it was coming down. Hydra's agents were dead, the complex was compromised, the machines – the chair – would burn. He was all that was left. And a part of him knew that he deserved to burn with all the rest.

"Barnes!"

He glanced behind him, back the way he had come. Even if he hadn't remembered it, this was all he'd ever known. This was where he belonged.

"War's not over, soldier." Fury pulled something from his pocket and tossed it at his feet. It was an envelope, small and unmarked. "Hydra's still out there. You want revenge? Got some information in there you might find useful."

He looked up, his eyes locking to Fury's. "Why?"

"Call it a favor. Take it, don't take it. That's up to you." He nodded over his shoulder. "There's a back entrance. Through that door, two lefts and a right. I won't follow."

Slowly, he bent and picked up the envelope. Fury was manipulating him. There was no denying that. But the ghosts were clamoring again. Today was good, but it wasn't good enough. And, hell, it had almost been fun.

"Dammit, Barnes! You gonna make me shoot you? _Go!_"

Stuffing the envelope into his pocket, he turned on his heel and ran in the direction Fury had pointed. The way was clear enough. The fire hadn't spread this far. Soon he was outside, crossing a high walkway that overlooked the burning courtyard below. A sane person would be running, but Hydra always seemed to inspire a certain bullheaded fanaticism. And then there were some people who looked death in the face and laughed.

She was laughing now, cleaning up the last of Hydra's goons in the clearing below him. The light reflected in her hair, a blazing trail of living flame. The red-haired ghost. She was one of Fury's now. He'd shot them both, but now they were here. The ghosts were fighting back.

He watched her, outlined against the flames. Beauty and shadow and grace. Her opponents never stood a chance.

He watched as the last man fell, watched as she scanned the courtyard, certain that someone had been watching. But when she looked up, he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd expected a trap. The ghosts never brought him anything but pain and he'd seen what came from giving trust a chance. Hell, he couldn't even trust himself. Fury had seemed real enough, but he hadn't exactly tried to hide his agenda. Another person who wanted to manipulate him, to use him, to send him after their enemies. After Hydra. That part he didn't mind so much. And so far Fury's intel had been good.

He crouched on the ridge above the base, using the trees for cover. His escape had given him the opportunity to resupply – weapons, cash, even a vehicle. Sighting along the scope of his new precision rifle, he scanned the cluster of buildings below. The first two locations on Fury's list had been small – half a dozen agents in a safe house outside D.C., a farm hiding a Hydra weapons lab. Neither one had given him much trouble.

But this was something else. The compound had been built into the mountain and, according to Fury's blueprints, extended deep underground. Once, it had belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D. He'd seen enough of the news stories to know that meant it had been Hydra's all along. It wasn't a comforting thought.

Resting the gun against his knee, he sighed. Things were different now, even he could sense that. There was no plan, no one in control. The war had gone underground. It was being fought player-by-player, piece-by-piece. But underground was where he lived. And it was hard to get thrown off balance when you'd started out that way.

He reached out for the ghosts and found them waiting, eager. They'd been with him at the safe house, whispering to him as he breached the door. They'd followed him to the farm, trailing him across the field as he left the barn burning behind him. For a little while, they'd gone quiet. But it was never enough. And it didn't stop the dreams. In fact, they were getting worse.

He pinched shut his eyes. How long had it been since he slept? He knew better than this, knew that he'd need to be alert to have any hope of making it out of the compound below. But that was the point. He knew that now. The more the ghosts came to him, the less he slept. The less he slept, the more the world blurred. And one day it would cost him.

They would have their revenge, but it would never be over, not as long as he was able to walk away. He hadn't seen any activity below, but who knew what might be lurking in the tunnels beneath the mountain. There was only one way this mission ended. The question was how much of Hydra he'd be taking with him.

His hand strayed to his pocket, to the envelope Fury had given him. The guy knew what he was doing. There'd been a list of objectives, sure, but that hadn't been the bait. The rest had been personal – abbreviated files, service records, even some of Hydra's own documents about the Winter Soldier project. Was Fury trying to goad him? Did he really think he needed reminding? He knew what they'd done, couldn't close his eyes without seeing it again.

Picking up the gun, he scanned the buildings again. There was movement on the north side now, a pair of sentries patrolling the perimeter. Only two guards for a facility this size. Either Hydra had pulled out, or it really was a trap. A betting man would pick the latter.

The ghosts were whispering again, the ache throbbing behind his eyes. It would be easy enough to sneak past the patrol, but that's not why he was here. They were Hydra. Finger ready on the trigger, he steadied his aim. He had the shot.

Before he could fire, the first guard dropped out of sight. He adjusted, searching for the other, centering him in the crosshairs just in time to see a fist connect with his jaw. Someone else was down there. Someone had beaten him to the punch.

The second guard fell as quickly as the first. Squinting through the scope, he saw why. They'd never stood a chance.

Captain America pressed his back against the wall, checking his shield as he scouted around the corner. _Steve_. His head whipped around, searching, calculating, looking everywhere but at the ridge. From the look of it, he was alone. But it wouldn't be the first Hydra base he'd stormed without backup.

Gritting his teeth, he drew a ragged breath. For a moment the memory had seemed so clear, but now it was slipping through his fingers, twisting and changing. Another life, another man, another mission. So many missions.

He followed Rogers' progress through the outbuildings, watching through the scope, unable to look away. His head was pounding, the gun heavy in his hands, his finger tensing on the trigger. Soon enough Rogers found his entrance. As he put a hand on the door, his eyes flitted upward, the crosshairs centered between them.

"Hey!"

He barely had time to see Rogers duck inside before something slammed into him from behind. The gun jerked in his hands, the shot echoing above the base. But then he was pitching over the edge of the ridge, falling again, the ground rushing up to meet him. No, not falling. _Flying_. Something caught him beneath the arms, grunting for the weight as it banked over the compound.

He pulled his sidearm, aiming upward, but suddenly up became down, the world spinning as they cartwheeled through the air.

"Nuh-uh. Not this time. I go down, you're going with me."

The bird man. They'd fought before, on the airships. Another ghost who refused to stay dead.

But the shot had alerted the base, as if the sight of two men spiraling toward the ground beneath a pair of metal wings wasn't enough. More guards were streaming out of the buildings below them, though the part of the compound where he'd lost Rogers still seemed quiet.

"Damn it!" He scowled up at the man above him. "Look what you did!"

"You really think I was gonna let you take that shot?" He banked hard, avoiding the first volley of gunfire from below.

"I wasn't—!" The next roll brought bile surging into his throat. It was all he could do to pull his second pistol. So far the guy had managed to keep them out of the line of fire, but even he could tell that the weight was too much. They were spiraling lower.

The bird man had seen the guns. "You _want_ me to drop you?"

"Just tell me you can keep it steady."

Another hail of bullets ripped past them.

"Not if you don't wanna get shot."

"Maybe I can do something about that. Get closer. And don't freakin' drop me!"

The bird man tightened his grip on him and dove lower, gathering speed. He unloaded both pistols, dropping half a dozen guards on their first pass. Another turn and a mid-air reload later, Hydra was diving for cover. It was a good start, but it was time to get his feet back on the ground.

He didn't need to tell the pilot. He lined the drop up perfectly, letting him go just above a startled guard, his boots connecting with the man's chest. As the guard fell, he saw him land behind him, his wings retracting. More guards were rushing toward them. He wanted to tell the guy to go, to take off again, that he had this. But as he watched, the pilot pulled a blade, deftly dodging the first guard's punch.

_Not bad._

He emptied the last of his clips before switching to his own knives. Hydra was circling around, coming in close, forcing him and the pilot to fight back-to-back. He didn't have time to think about it, didn't have time to wonder when he'd feel that blade between his shoulders. There was only the fight – the rhythm of dodge and slash, the ache in his temples subsiding beneath the thrill of violence. Hydra wanted to turn this into a brawl. That suited him just fine.

More guards were falling at his feet, but then he heard the curse, felt the pilot stagger back against him. His knife had been knocked away, clattering across the ground. Without thinking, he tossed one of his own blades behind him, smiling as the bird man snagged it from the air and drove it into his opponent's shoulder.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

What guards remained were falling back, retreating into the tunnels. Rogers was still down there, along with god knew what else.

The pilot was watching him warily. He was still holding the borrowed knife, weighing his chances. "You know, I'd actually hoped he was right about you."

He ignored him, turning his back and moving amongst the fallen guards, gathering what weapons and ammo he could. Nudging one with his boot, he crouched, helping himself to the man's grenades.

There was a click behind him. "Can't let you do that."

The guy was brave, he had to give him that. The bird man had pulled a gun and was aiming it at his back, keeping him in his sights as he rose slowly and turned around.

"Can't let me do what, exactly?"

"Whatever it is you're doing." He shook his head, eyes narrowing. "You know how long he's been looking for you? How many places we've been? He's been so sure, so hopeful… and now you've gone and done this."

"What? Saving your ass?"

"Really? Guess it wasn't me that caught you when you fell off that cliff."

"That you knocked me off of."

"After _you_ took a shot at Steve." The guy was defensive, angry. And, worst of all, that loyalty was strangely familiar.

"I didn't."

"Man, I _saw_ you!"

"I was just… watching. Covering him, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah. I guess. And then _you_ bumped me. Maybe you _wanted_ me to take the shot."

They stared at each other, the pilot still holding the gun steady between them. After a long moment, he lowered it, shaking his head. "He talks about you a lot, you know. But he never mentioned you were an idiot."

"Hey."

He gestured to the fallen guards. "But I'm guessing this means you're not on Hydra's payroll anymore."

"No."

"So… what? You're one of the good guys now? Bucky Barnes, war hero?"

"Not exactly." One of the guards was stirring at his feet. Spinning his knife between his fingers, he plunged it down into the man's throat.

"That's real comforting."

"So you're Rogers' backup?"

The guy actually stood a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And what's the mission?"

"I told you – looking for you. But Hydra's dug in deep here. Figured we'd find out why."

"By sending Rogers in alone."

"You say that like I could have stopped him."

He chuckled without fully knowing why, smirking down at the ground. When he looked up, the pilot was smiling with him.

"I know we met before, but maybe we should give this another try." He offered his hand. "Sam Wilson."

He stared down at it. Then he turned away, making his way between the buildings in the direction Rogers had gone.

Wilson called after him. "What're you gonna do?"

"Something idiotic."


	8. Chapter 8

He remembered this. It wouldn't be the first Hydra base he'd infiltrated. But today was different. This felt familiar, older. Back during the War, Captain America and the Howling Commandos had stormed strongholds all across Europe. It seemed like the whole world knew the stories, the victories. But they didn't know the rest. They didn't know what it was like to be first across the line, to never know what was around the next corner, to face an enemy that built weapons out of old magic and weird science – things you wouldn't believe until you came face-to-face with them in some dark tunnel. They didn't know what it was like to realize you were it, that there would be no second chances. It had never felt like bravery. Sometimes you just had to throw yourself in and damn everything else.

But that wasn't what nagged at him, not entirely. As he pressed himself against the wall and fired around the corner, he could hear Wilson behind him, covering their rear. The Commandos were dead and buried – most of them, anyway. He'd worked alone for nearly as long as he could remember. He'd gotten good at it. But there were advantages to having someone to watch your back. Advantages, and a comforting sort of _deja vu_.

He was letting himself get distracted. They'd made their way into the tunnels beneath the mountain, following Rogers. That was familiar, too. Steve was always getting himself into trouble, starting fights that no one in their right mind would want to finish. No one but him. Following some skinny little kid with a death wish. Maybe he'd always been crazy.

_C'mon, Buck. Just a little further._

Ducking back behind cover, he slid down against the wall and put his face in his hands. That voice had a way of cutting through the pounding in his head, one ghost louder than all the rest. And they _were_ loud. Any rest, any break in the violence brought them surging back. They surrounded him now, the whispers pressing in - demanding, accusing, laughing at his attempts to block them out. They were weighing him down, pulling him under, reminding him that he hadn't slept. The gunfire in the hallway ahead was a distant roar. The old cold had settled in his bones, constant and aching. His arm was so damn heavy. Forcing his eyes open, he stared down at the gun in his hand.

"Hey, Barnes! You with me?" Wilson crouched in the hallway across from him, ducking into a doorway as another hail of bullets ripped between them. "We're getting pinned down here!"

He'd prepared for this. He was ready. One last push. But he hadn't planned on company. Wilson was holding his own, even without his wings, but this was Hydra. Their fight on the surface had put the base on alert. Who knew how many of them might be camped out in the junction ahead.

This wasn't Wilson's fight. They might both be chasing after Rogers, but he doubted the guy knew what that really meant. He didn't need to die for this.

"Barnes! Dammit!"

Reaching into his belt, he pulled out the grenade he'd taken from the guard on the surface and turned it over in his hands.

Wilson's eyes went wide. "Aw, shit."

Pulling the pin, he launched it into the intersection ahead and pressed himself back against the wall. Opposite him, Wilson did the same.

The impact shuddered through him, the explosion echoing through the compound. If Hydra hadn't known where they were before, they did now. There wasn't much time.

Slowly, he moved forward, sweeping the hall with Wilson just behind him. How many guards there had been, he couldn't say. But for now, at least, the junction was clear.

Wilson surveyed the mess. "Damn. You don't hold back, do you?"

"I've been doing this longer than you have."

"Must feel like the good old days, huh?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Sorry." Wilson sighed, shaking his head. "You okay? Thought I'd lost you for a minute there." He sounded honestly concerned. It would only make this harder.

Raising his gun, he leveled it at Wilson's forehead.

"Hey! What the hell?"

He cocked the hammer.

Wilson took a step back, holding up his hands. "_Bucky_. Take it easy."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. Sure. Man, just calm down."

He _was_ calm. But the ghosts were coming back, growing hungry again. Wilson wasn't Hydra, but they were beyond distinctions now, beyond caring. Blood was blood. He wasn't sure how long he could hold them. "Go."

"What?"

He shook his head, struggling to keep things clear. "You watched my back. Now I'm watching yours. _Go_."

"Or you'll shoot me?"

"My people skills aren't what they used to be." He steadied his grip, nodding back the way they had come. "And I work better alone."

"Not the way I hear it."

"I don't care what you heard."

"You should. You think I let just anybody pull a gun on me? I have it on good authority that you're not gonna pull that trigger."

_Buck_.

A figure appeared over Wilson's shoulder. He stood at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets, watching them. Rogers, but not the man he'd seen on the surface. No, what he'd been chasing was an echo, a skinny kid with a sad smile who was too damn stubborn to leave him in peace.

"What?" Wilson risked a glance behind him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

It was just an expression, but the guy couldn't know how right he was. The laughter bubbled in his throat, spilling over until his shoulders were heaving with it, the gun in his hand momentarily forgotten.

Wilson arched a brow. "Man, I'm not judging… but you sound just a little bit crazy right now."

"Because I _am_."

"Nah, you've just been through some crazy shit. Doesn't mean that's who you are." Wilson spread his hands. "Now maybe you wanna put the gun down and tell me what's funny."

_There's no time, Buck_. The ghost was watching them still, beckoning him onward.

He gave Wilson a thin-lipped smile. "You tried. He knows you did."

Before the other man could speak, he lifted him by the collar, launching him back the way they had come. Wilson landed hard, the momentum carrying him backwards, but it was far enough. Catching his eye, he pulled the other grenade from his belt and tossed it into the network of exposed pipes running through the hallway above them. Then he turned on his heel and sprinted in the other direction.

"Dammit, Barnes!"

Maybe it would bring down the ceiling, maybe it would flood the place but, either way, Wilson wouldn't follow, not without doubling back to the surface. As the explosion reverberated through the walls, he caught sight of the ghost again.

_C'mon, Buck. Keep up_.

This wasn't right. He'd always been faster. Any second now, the kid would break down wheezing and he'd have to carry him home again.

No. He shook his head. That wasn't right either. He shouldn't _know_ that. The other voices were crowding in, spinning him around. Every hallway, every flight of stairs, looked the same. Tangling his fingers in his hair, he balled his fists. He was lost, more lost than he'd ever been. But then the ghost was there, just ahead, smiling that same sad smile.

_Steve_.

Of course, they weren't alone. He barely saw the Hydra agents in his path, barely slowed as they slumped and fell aside. When his bullets ran out, he switched to his blades, all the while moving in time with the ghosts, listening to them thrill and fall away.

He'd done these things before. And they would always be here to remind him. Violence came as easy as breathing. A man that he shot in the stomach stared down at his hands in disbelief, just like the general in Santiago. Another tried to scream around the gash in this throat, an echo of Amarah, 1983. It was happening again, all of it.

He finally caught up to the ghost in some kind of silo, a wide shaft crisscrossed with catwalks, stretching up as far as he could see. He was waiting beside the nearest railing, staring into the gaping darkness below. When he turned to look at him, Steve didn't seem to notice the blood, didn't realize that that smile was something he didn't deserve.

_Hey, Buck_.

He put his hands on his knees, catching his breath. "What is this?"

_Your promise._

The ghost's eyes swept upward, to a commotion on the catwalks far above them. Hydra soldiers were swarming onto the narrow bridge from both sides, trapping a figure between them. _Steve_. Captain America, taking on a whole damn army. Not a ghost, not a shadow. Not a mission, not anymore.

He had to find a way up. He could try to make the leap to the next level, pull himself up and keep climbing. But as he put his boot on the railing, he saw the others. More soldiers pressed in on the levels between them, all of them armed and taking aim at the catwalk above. If he hadn't been so lost to revenge, he could have stopped and resupplied, could have done _something_.

In desperation, he turned on the ghost. "What promise? What am I supposed to do? Tell me!"

_You said you'd be here_. He was still watching the fighting high above them, watching the man that he had become. Then he turned, raising those sad eyes to his. _End of the line, Buck_.

He could only watch in horror as Hydra opened fire, filling the silo with sound and smoke. But there was another sound, sharper than the gunfire. It was the screech of metal on metal, the groan of the catwalk giving way. One of the soldiers fell as the supports snapped free, his scream trailing behind him as he disappeared into the darkness below. Then the entire structure came crashing down, taking out the walkways beneath it and sending the Hydra agents scattering.

As it plummeted past, he threw himself against the railing. There was a flash of red amongst the wreckage and he lunged for it, straining as the shield slipped past his fingers. Just for a moment he saw him suspended above the darkness, saw the surprise as Steve's eyes locked to his. And then he was gone.

The scream ripped through him, blinding him, drowning out everything else. Everything but the ghosts. They came thundering back, bringing their horrors, opening old wounds. But he didn't feel it. Because one of them was missing. The ghost that had helped him, that had guided him here, was gone. He was really gone.

Something whizzed past him, stinging his cheek. One of the Hydra soldiers had reappeared on the levels above and was lining up his second shot. He blinked up at the man uncomprehending, touching the fresh scratch on his face.

"Get down!"

Someone grabbed him roughly from behind, shoving him back into the cover of the hallway. Another ghost, but not him, not Steve. She fired twice at the gunman above them, staring down into the abyss as he fell.

Red hair. He knew her.

When she turned to look at him, her eyes were wide, her whisper soft. "We need to go."

Steve's ghost had helped him, but then he'd brought him here, brought him to this. Brought him pain. It was all they wanted, all they had to give.

"Barnes?" She was watching him warily, slowly pulling another gun from her hip. "We have to get out of here."

He shook his head violently, slamming his fist into the wall. He was through listening to ghosts.

"Steve…" Her voice was thick, her eyes straying back to the edge. "He'd want us to get out – he'd want _you_ to get out."

"Leave me alone!"

He staggered toward her, but she stepped back smoothly, calmly, leveling the gun at his chest. "I'm not doing this for you. I made a promise."

So had he. With him 'til the end. And he had been. It was over. There was nothing left.

"Shoot me, then. It's what you want, what you _all_ want. Just get it the hell over with."

The ghost shook her head. "Tranquilizer rounds. Non-lethal. It's not how Rogers wanted to bring you in, but…"

"Always prepared, huh, Natalia?" He spoke in Russian, but somehow he knew she'd understand.

She hesitated only a moment, but it was enough. He lunged past her, running for the edge, for the end. But she grabbed him again, jerking him backwards. He was stronger, but she was precise. She planted a kick behind his knee, knocking his leg from under him. Cursing, he grabbed her wrist, felt the bone give as he twisted the gun from her hand. She might be a ghost, but her gasp of pain was real. So was the fear in her eyes.

He hadn't meant to hurt her. He just needed time. He needed quiet. He needed them to _leave him alone_.

The gun was in his hand. Staring down at her cradling her arm, he winced. "Tranquilizer rounds? You sure?"

"Yes. We don't want to hurt you, we just—"

"Good." He fired once into her leg.

As she slumped to the ground, he crouched beside her, watching her eyelids flutter, watching her fight it. _Natalia._ But the drugs worked quick. She lost her battle, just like he had. Only he'd lost everything.

Sinking to his knees, he buried his face in his hands.


	9. Chapter 9

She was waking up. It started slowly – a catch in her breath, a twitch in her fingers. Her head lolled against the storage crates where he'd laid her, pushed together to form a makeshift bed while he took a chair across the room. The drugs had been strong, but when her eyes flew open she was alert almost instantly, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on the gun in his hand.

He'd carried her here, to a storage room in a quiet part of the compound. They hadn't been followed. He'd doubled back through the hallways that had flooded when he blew the pipes, wading up to his waist as he lifted her above the water. The few Hydra agents they'd encountered were in no shape to come after them. He'd made sure of that.

He nodded to the gun. "_Not _tranquilizer rounds. Just so we're clear."

Natalia pushed slowly into a sitting position, wincing for the pain in her arm. "That doesn't mean you're going to shoot me."

"You sure about that? 'Cause I'm not."

It was then that she noticed the splint on her wrist, hastily fashioned from a first aid kit that he'd ripped from the wall. Staring down at it, she pursed her lips. "We're still inside."

"We're secure. For now."

"Just you and me, then." She raised her eyes to his. There was no fear there, no challenge. She'd already marked the exit, calculated her chances of disarming him. They both knew the score. Someone injured and unarmed shouldn't be so calm. But that was Natalia.

He'd watched her while she slept, searching his fractured memories. Memories and dreams. It was hard to tell the difference. He remembered Odessa, Washington. He remembered hurting her. He had hurt her again today. Whatever had come before… _that_ was the dream. He'd dreamed they'd known each other, trained together. But that was then, when there'd been nothing but blood and cold and darkness. It didn't fit. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. Because, in his dreams, she'd looked at him and seen a man.

It had been a long time before he noticed the quiet. When he looked at her, the ghosts grew still. Somehow – barricaded behind enemy lines, holding a gun on an unconscious woman who had tried to take him down – he had found a few moments of peace. But then she opened her eyes and it had been all the confirmation he needed.

Because she didn't know him. It was all another trick, another lie. Another punishment.

As she swung her legs over the side of the crate, he tightened his grip on the gun. "Don't."

She settled back slowly, projecting nothing but calm, careful not to give him a reason. She knew how this game was played. "Before… you called me Natalia."

"It's your name."

"Not anymore. No one's called me that in a long time. It's Natasha now."

"Why?"

A shadow passed behind her eyes, but she forced a thin-lipped smile. "New name, new identity, new chance."

"You say that like it's easy."

"Changing who you are? It's what I do."

"Yeah, well, I never got a choice."

"You have one now." When he didn't respond, she leaned forward. "Don't tell me you don't see it. Hydra's not in control anymore. There are people that can help you. It's… what Rogers wanted."

"Rogers." He wet his lips. "Steve… he's…"

"That's not your fault. You did everything you could."

He hadn't asked her to patronize him. It _wasn't_ his fault. Hydra had… He shook his head. The memory spun, turning upside-down. _He_ was the one falling, stretching up a hand that was whole and human, watching as Steve strained to reach him. But he hadn't. And then there'd been nothing but the cold.

It was with him still, settled deep in his bones, weighing him down. Dammit, he was tired.

"You're not alone, James."

The words cut through him. He knew her voice, had felt the warmth of it against his ear, her sigh chasing away the cold. He could feel her again in his arms, feel her hands sliding over him, his lips buried in her neck. She hadn't flinched from his touch, hadn't turned away when she saw the things that he was capable of. She'd walked beside him on missions and still found her way into his bed.

It was only a dream, but for a moment it overwhelmed his senses, his breath growing ragged as he pinched shut his eyes. A dream implanted by Hydra? Maybe it had been an attempt to stabilize him, to provide the illusion of companionship. Maybe it was just another torment, one that would ache again and again every time he woke. Or maybe it was the ghosts, twisting his memories. Maybe he _had_ killed her. He'd tried enough times. And she'd found a way to hurt him that the others never could.

It didn't matter why. What mattered was that it wasn't real. He had to focus. She knew his name, but he hadn't had one, not then. This was just another lie, another trick to keep him calm. No woman could love the thing that they had made of him.

He counted the seconds, steadying himself. Then he opened his eyes. "You're right. I'm not alone. And that's the problem."

"I know it can feel that way. People like us, we're used to being on our own. Letting someone in isn't easy. But sometimes it's the only option. Sometimes it's even worth it."

He looked away. "'People like us…'"

"We're not all that different." She crossed her legs, resting her bandaged arm in her lap. "I know what it's like to have someone in your head, to feel them strip away who you are. They did it to me, too."

"I remember." He chuckled, switching to her native tongue. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova. The Black Widow. Trained in the Red Room. A master of infiltration and extraction. Manipulation. Seduction."

She hid her surprise well, but just for a moment her eyes flickered, her lips pressing together. "You've done your homework."

"Used to feed the stray cats before her superiors found out about it. Has a preference for small arms. Holds back when she spars so no one will know what she can really do. Rubs her feet together when she sleeps. Still does. Likes to be in control…" He smirked, looking down at his hands. "Not that I remember complaining."

She'd gone quiet. When she did speak, her voice was soft, guarded. "What?"

"I _remember_." He raised the gun, his eyes locking to hers. "Do you?"

He could see her doubt, see her weighing the possibilities. She wanted to know how he knew, was working out a way to make him tell her without tipping her hand. Even now she was playing him, had been all along.

"_Do you know me?_"

"Barnes…"

"You don't. Because it didn't happen. It wasn't real."

"Calm down, James. Just—"

"Shut up! You're not… you don't… They put you in my head. All of you. Even…" He tongue felt thick. He couldn't get the words out. _Steve_. If she was a lie, then so was he. They'd given him the memories of a dead man. It hadn't been _real_. But he couldn't bring himself to say it.

He pushed to his feet, pressing his hands to his head as he paced. "The things I've done… I can't stop seeing them. The people I've hurt…"

"You're trying to make up for it." She stood slowly. "We've been tracking your movements. We know you've been going after Hydra. When you met on the helicarrier, Steve said he saw—"

"Don't!" He swung the gun toward her again. The ghosts were surging back, drowning out everything else. All but one. "Don't talk about him like he's still here. He's not. And it's my fault. I _wanted_ him to go. But he wouldn't. Wouldn't shut up, wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't stop giving me that friggin' look. That smile. Like he _knew_. Like he knew everything – what I am, what I've done – like he knew and it didn't matter."

Her lips twitched. "That does sound like Rogers. But when you say you saw him…"

"Like he used to be. Like they all used to be. In my dreams, even when I'm awake. I see them. And I see how they died."

"Are you seeing them now?"

He arched a brow, sighting at her down the barrel of the gun. "Obviously."

Natalia spread her hands. "I'm real, Barnes."

"You're supposed to say that." A wild laugh ripped through him. "You're not the first one to try, you know. Hydra… they sent a girl. She changed her face. And then she drugged me. Knocked me out, just like you were going to."

"I'm not Hydra. And I'm not a ghost." She took a careful step toward him, her hands still raised. "I just want to help."

"Why? If you _are_ real, if you don't know me, then why have I seen you before? How can you look like someone I remember? Either you're dead… or you know what they put in my head and you're trying to use it against me. Maybe you changed your face, too."

He put both hands on the gun. She held her ground, but she knew the game had changed. He could see it in her eyes.

"James, I promise you, I'm not going to hurt you. I'll tell you everything I know. I'll _help_ you. Just… give me the gun…"

"You said they did it to you, too."

She nodded, stretching out a hand. "I've got red in my ledger, just like you. They made me do things, cut out parts of me that I thought I'd lost forever. It doesn't ever really go away. There are still scars, still holes in my memory—"

"The Red Room. Your training. Any holes there?"

"Yes." She held his eye, unblinking, unflinching. She was giving him something, opening up. "There are things from that time that I thought I'd blocked out. But maybe you're right, maybe they took them. Maybe there's something they didn't want me to know. But if you shoot me, I'll never get to find out."

"Maybe you're better off." He hung his head. "All I ever did was get you into trouble."

"None of that matters. You can stop this. You're in control."

But that was the thing about control. It wasn't real. None of them were ever in control. Hydra… the ghosts… it would never end. He'd seen men pushed to the brink, seen people who'd had everything taken from them. There's been a lot of that, during the War. When freedom was gone, when not even the inside of your head was safe, what was left but a final act of defiance? _This_, he could control. He could stop it. For once, he could do the right thing.

She came toward him, but he stepped smoothly back, turning the gun on himself and pressing the barrel to his temple.

Natalia froze.

"They wanted me to see what I'd done, to _feel_ it. Every time I close my eyes, it's there. _You're_ there. Hurting me, paying me back. But I did what you wanted. Kept killing. Hydra, sure, but it doesn't matter. I'll never be enough. We'll never be done."

"James. _Please_." There'd been no fear when he held the gun on her, but she wasn't bothering to hide it now. "If you won't believe I'm here to help you, then believe I'm here for _him_ – for Steve. I made him a promise. And if you do this, that's on me."

"It's not."

"It _is_. You know what he's like. He makes you want to be different… better. Let me do this. Let me help you. For him."

The gun was shaking in his hands. "He's dead. "

"I know. I saw."

He shook his head. "He's _dead_. He brought me back. He led me here. But if he's gone… then what's left?"

"That's up to you." She stood close. She could take the gun if she wanted to. But she only held out her hand, staring up at him, letting him see the guilt, the pain, the exhaustion in her eyes. He wasn't the only one who'd lost a friend today.

The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. Then he was sinking to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face against her. Natalia stiffened, but then he felt her fingers in his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead, gathering him to her as she sat back against the crates. He curled beside her, breathing deep, letting the warmth of her drown out everything else. There were no ghosts, no dreams, no missions. There was only the hollow feeling in his chest, the violent trembling in his shoulders, the steady rhythm of her fingers smoothing it all away. It hurt, hurt worse than anything. But this, at least, was real.

"Wow. I was not expecting that."

He jerked, looking up to see Wilson standing in the doorway. Natalia still stoked his hair, keeping him where he was, gentle but insistent. She shot Sam a glare.

"Hey, man. I'm not judging. I'm a little jealous, actually." He stepped into the room with his hands raised.

"Wilson. You're still here."

"Yeah. Even after that little stunt you pulled. Good thing, too." Sam glanced behind him and he felt his breath catch.

"Hey, Buck."

He sat up slowly, Natalia's hand still on his arm. Steve filled the doorway – not a ghost, not a dream, not a shadow. The tears in his uniform were real. So was his busted lip. How many of those had he gotten growing up? How many times had Bucky wrapped ice in a towel, holding it there while he squirmed?

He stood without realizing it, crossing the room in a daze. But then he was there, staring up at him, marveling again at how tall he was, like it was the first time all over again. He _remembered_. It hurt, but it was getting easier.

"You fell."

Wilson grinned. "Not an option. Not when I'm around."

Steve smiled, shrugging in agreement. He knew that look. He was really here, really him.

A laugh escaped him before he could help himself. "I guess some things never change. You're still running off and getting into trouble."

"Yeah, well, I'm used to having someone watching my back."

"Not sure how you survived all these years without me."

"It's a long story."

"Tell me about it."

He didn't know what came next, didn't know where to go from here. But for once it didn't matter. Because Steve's arms were around him, clapping him on the back, crushing him against his chest.

"I hate to break up the reunion, but we do still have a whole base of Hydra agents above us."

He pulled away slowly. Sam and Natalia were checking their gear, arming themselves for the trip back out.

Steve grinned. "Ready for a fight?"

Bucky grinned back. "Like you even have to ask."


End file.
